


Dum spiro spero

by girabbit



Series: Pro Patria Vivere [1]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - John Laurens Lives, Canon Era, M/M, Mentions of HL, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girabbit/pseuds/girabbit
Summary: A story in which John Laurens is forced to take a rest.(The first installment in a Canon-Era Laurens Lives AU.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [bbcphile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcphile/pseuds/bbcphile), [ElfMaidenOfLight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ElfMaidenOfLight/pseuds/ElfMaidenOfLight), and [EllyCM](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EllyCM) for putting up with my insecurities, for doing fantastic beta-work, and for taking the time to really read what I've written. It means a great deal more than you know!

* * *

 

"No man can doubt of your bravery, your own good sense will point out the distinction between Courage & temerity nor need I tell you that it is as much your duty to preserve your own health & strength as it is to destroy an Enemy."

\- Henry Laurens to John Laurens

* * *

  **August 1782. South Carolina.  
**

 

Fever, brought on by the thick, oppressive summer heat of the swamp, held John Laurens captive in his own bed. In the hastily constructed hut hidden alongside the cut of the Wappoo River, he resisted the sickness, struggling with the task at hand.

He willed his tired body to cooperate, refusing to abandon his duties. Others were depending on him. Propped up with his portable writing desk across his lap, he had to focus to keep his vision straight.

The situation demanded a letter, and he was determined to see it done; there would be no disappointing the messenger pacing impatiently outside his door. General Greene would not be kept waiting on his account.

His fingers ached, but he kept his pen steady as he wrote.

_I forward you the inclosed which I have just received-- vague intelligence reached me of the march of light troops-- will you be so good as to inform me whether anything is likely to be done?_

It was not his neatest penmanship. In his feverish state he choked out a raspy laugh, remembering the simpler days of his youth, when his father would rebuke him for writing too hastily. But surely his father would agree: _belles lettres_ were of little use to him now. At least the words were legible, he assured himself as he folded and endorsed his dispatch, collecting with it the other intelligence that he was to pass along.

The whole damned affair-- the reason for the march of light troops-- had to do with rice and the Tory-owned slaves starving in Charles Town. The farmers who sided with the Continental Army had the rice, and the British Army wanted it. The British had gone so far as to even offer to pay for it, but Governor Matthews had gone above General Greene’s good sensibilities and refused.

Foolishness, Laurens thought as he pushed aside his desk and prepared to stand. The Continental Army was sorely underfunded, and the British had decided to attack anyway. He could not fault them for their motives, and in fact he sympathized with them. Thinking about Americans allowing civilians to starve and feeling no remorse drove him mad.

How could his compatriots place so little value on human life? They claimed to strive for a country where all men were created equal, yet were outright ignoring an entire subset of its population.

Still, Laurens’ irritation would not equal betrayal. He was an American, and as an American he would fight.

Bracing himself as he got up, Laurens was already prepared for the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. He was well-acquainted with his illness-- for two weeks it had been plaguing him in cycles. Just as he thought he was better, it would return. Tertian fever, he had been told by the doctor, though he knew the symptoms intimately enough to have diagnosed himself.

Swatting away a mosquito, Laurens staggered to the door.

Outside stood not only the messenger, but two members of the guard that had been assigned together with him at his outpost. With a nod, he greeted the three men, ignoring the uncomfortableness that hung unspoken in the air as he, sans jacket and looking anything but official, leaned into the doorframe for support.

“This goes to General Greene,” he told the messenger, who took the packet of papers from him and tucked it away. Addressing the soldiers, he continued, “I am needed to the south. Yesterday’s reports contained news that General Gist will engage at Chehaw Neck, and I am sure he will wish me to assist.”

Exchanging a brief look, the soldiers lowered their heads. Both looked ready to object, but they kept quiet, and so he continued, **“** You and the others are to remain here and defend this post. Only I need go. Will one of you please ready my horse while I get my things in order? I wish to be off within the hour.”

Dismissing them, he retreated back to his hut and stepped just out of their sight to catch his bearings. He’d fought in battles under more desperate circumstances, overcome the injuries he’d sustained at Brandywine, German Town, Monmouth and Coosawhatchie. He’d survived cold nights at Valley Forge where he had nearly frozen to death, and lived through being taken prisoner at Charles Town. Finally, there had been glory at Yorktown. If he could just gather his strength, then he could persevere!

He let his eyes slip closed, waiting for the pounding in his ears to subside.

A fever would not end him.

Surveying the hut  again, he was glad to find that the room had stopped spinning. Confidently, he left the security of the wall and stepped forward to begin his preparations.

He had not anticipated that his legs would give out. There was no time to think as he fell, striking his head soundly against the sharp corner of his dressing trunk.

 

***

  
When he woke again, it was to a damp cloth at his forehead. He startled, breathing out, a sudden, terrible throbbing at his temple. Reaching up, fingers met the sore, egg-sized lump protruding from his forehead. Groaning, Laurens opened his eyes.

“At ease, sir,” quipped Doctor Simms, who was hovering above him, studying him over the top of his spectacles. “You took quite a tumble.”

Laurens heeded the order, hand dropping back down at his side.

“Your men tell me, sir, that you intended to ignore the advice I had given you when last we met.” Doctor Simms had visited him several days ago. How was it that he had gotten to their outpost again so quickly?

It was then that Laurens noted the change in the hour. It was dark outside. He propped himself up on his forearms, straining to see. “What day is it?” he asked, surprised by the dryness in his throat.

“It is the evening of the twenty-fifth of August,” the doctor replied.

Too late, Laurens knew instantly. A full day had already passed. Even if he rode now, there was little hope that he would catch up with General Gist’s army in time to join the fight.

Dejected, he made a frustrated noise between clenched teeth and sunk back down into his bedding.

“I told you to rest,” Doctor Simms chided. “Do you see what happens when you do not follow my direction?”

“I thought I was well enough,” Laurens lied. “I ought to have been.”

Standing up straight, Doctor Simms folded his arms over his chest, more amused than angry. “Now, I told you that it would be fine for you to send and receive letters, provided you had the energy. But to even think of riding? My dear Lieutenant Colonel, had you been successful in mounting your horse, you certainly would have only ridden to your doom. No General in his right mind would let you lead a charge in your state.”

Content on having given his lecture, the doctor reached for the table-side lantern and took it in hand. Leaning back down, he lifted Laurens’ eyelids one at a time to check the condition of his pupils. With a low hum of approval, he set down the lantern and declared, “You are lucky. I have no doubt you will survive both your contusion and your illness… _if_ you allow yourself adequate rest.”

Grabbing the cloth from his forehead, Laurens unfolded it, wiping away the sweat at his neck and collarbone. Even with the hut’s door and window ajar, the air was stuffy, humidity brutal. When he was finished, the doctor took the cloth from him and placed it into a bowl at the bedside.

“Give me your word that you will confine yourself for the remainder of the week.” Doctor Simms softly demanded.

“Yes, Doctor, I promise,” Laurens assured, finding no reason to defy him once again.

“Good man,” Doctor Simms nodded, then picked up and handed over a small bundle. New messages must have arrived while Laurens had been indisposed. Instantly, he recognized the neat, bold strokes of the topmost letter, and his expression shifted. He was unable to hide a smile from creeping over his lips.

A letter from Alexander Hamilton.

“Call for one of your men if you require the use of your desk,” the doctor said finally. “But please do not strain yourself. I will instruct them to bring you something to eat.”

“Yes, of course, Doctor.”

Laurens barely noticed the man leave as he broke the letter’s seal.

 _Albany, August 15, 1782_ , the letter was dated.

It began: _I received with great Pleasure, My Dear Laurens, the letter which you wrote me in last._

Laurens brought his free hand to his mouth, forefinger resting between his lips anticipatorily. He ignored the pain at his temple and adjusted his position in bed, wanting for better light. A familiar giddiness began squeeze in his chest. That one letter could so thoroughly undo his sensibilities was embarrassing, even if there was no longer anyone around to notice.

He knew he should save Hamilton’s letter for last, that there could be more pressing matters deeper within the stack that needed his immediate attention, but in his weakened state he lacked the self-discipline.

_Your wishes in one respect are gratified; this state has pretty unanimously delegated me to Congress. My time of service commences in November._

Such good news for Hamilton! Congress in November, and from there, Laurens expected, his friend would move onto grander stations.

_It is not probable it will result in what you mention. I hope it is too late. We have great reason to flatter ourselves peace on our own terms is upon the carpet. The making it is in good hands._

From the perspective of someone in the northern states, perhaps, it seemed that peace would soon be made. Could it be that Hamilton had no concept of how far away it was for the south? There would be need yet for a smart, persuasive man to see to the end of the war. Even if not granted the honor of sailing abroad to advise, Hamilton would have plenty of ways to gain notoriety at home.

Daydreams of Hamilton’s glory halted as Laurens continued on, shoulders tensing.

_It is said your father is exchanged for Cornwallis and gone to Paris to meet the other commissioners and that Grenville on the part of England has made a second trip there, in the last instance, vested with Plenipotentiary powers._

More good news, if it was true, but what did it mean for the future? After such a long time confined to the Tower of London, could it really be that his father was free? When they were last together, father and son had parted with solemn goodbyes. Laurens had long since come to terms with the idea that they may never meet again.

_I fear there may be obstacles but I hope they may be surmounted._

No doubt the imprisonment had only worsened his father’s ailments. If gout had plagued him so badly in the relative comfort of Philadelphia, it would only have worsened while being held in a jail cell. Assuming that his father would recover enough to sail back to America, what would he expect with the war resolved? Would he wish to reunite the remainder of their family and keep them all in South Carolina?  
  
Laurens pushed the thought aside.

_Peace made, My Dear friend, a new scene opens. The object then will be to make our independence a blessing._

Hamilton, who often spoke so bitterly of life in the past, wrote so optimistically now that it put Laurens immediately back at ease. A new scene meant a new chance for happiness.

Biting down on his finger to conceal his swoon, Laurens studied the next sentence once, and then twice again.

 _To do this we must secure our_ union _on solid foundations; an herculean task and to effect which mountains of prejudice must be levelled!_

Hamilton spoke of their union, the special care taken to emphasize that word in particular not lost on Laurens. Heat rose across his cheeks, and stirred in other, deeper places within him, but it was not a heat that could be blamed on his fever. He recalled whispered promises in the dark, the fleeting touches shared when they had been able to find moments alone.

No one else would have given the phrase a second thought, hidden in plain sight but only visible to someone who knew what to look for. Laurens knew exactly what sort of union Hamilton was alluding to. He shifted his body uncomfortably, stealing a glimpse at the hut’s doorway to check that no one stood there. Though he was fairly certain there wasn't anyone watching, he refrained from indulging too much in his perceived privacy.

_It requires all the virtue and all the abilities of the Country. Quit your sword my friend, put on the toga, come to Congress. We know each others sentiments, our views are the same: we have fought side by side to make America free, let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy._

Hand in hand, Hamilton practically begged. Yes! Laurens wanted to call out, longed to have Hamilton there next to him, to pull him into his embrace and kiss him.

They had only confessed the real extent of their affections after obligations had seen them separated. When they had been together, there had only been hints choked out carelessly in clumsy moments. Even with knowing truth, the distance which separated them was too great for anything but imagining and longing. If they made a place for themselves in New York, the vows they pledged could be actualized.

And, side by side, working in unison, they would have the greatest chance of shaping not only their new nation, but their own lives.

_Remember me to General Greene with all the warmth of a sincere attachment._

_Yrs for ever_

_A. Hamilton_

Laurens let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Forever. The promise of that salutation was not to be taken lightly. Forever. Laurens grappled with the concept in his mind.

Forever.

Yes, Hamilton, he agreed. Yours forever.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from the motto of South Carolina: "Dum spiro spero (While I breathe, I hope)" and it is the first in a series of works in a project I would like to call "Pro Patria Vivere (To Live for One's Country)" which is, of course, a play off of "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," the Latin phrase engraved on John Laurens' gravestone. 
> 
> It is believed that _"I forward you the inclosed which I have just received-- vague intelligence reached me of the march of light troops-- will you be so good as to inform me whether anything is likely to be done?"_ were the last words that John Laurens ever wrote, before getting on his horse and heading towards his death. 
> 
> Though I did gather information to write this from several different sources, the book "The History of South Carolina in the Revolution, 1780-1783" by Edward McCrady had the most concise summary of the events leading up to the fateful shot on August 27, 1782. 
> 
> For me, it was important to give John Laurens a different sort of Laurens Lives AU. Here, deviation from history occurs when, delirious, he falls forward and hits his head, preventing him from ever abandoning his post at the Wappoo Cut, preventing a rash charge into battle, preventing his death. It further prevents John facing court-martial for disobeying duties. Most importantly, it stops John from having to recover what would have been crippling wounds, leaving John able to continue on his life's work.
> 
> I hope you'll stick around as the project continues to grow!


End file.
